So live, that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan which movesTo that mysterious realm where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and smoothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy graveLike one that wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. Bryant.Thanatopsis.

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience! Longfellow.Evangeline, Part II. v. Line 125.

There is no death. The thing that we call deathIs but another, sadder name for life,Which is itself an unsufficient name,Faint recognition of that unknown LifeThat Power whose shadow is the Universe. Stoddard.Hymn to the Sea.